by Ronna Gage
“You need to gain about ten pounds,” her doctor had advised.
How in the world can I be ten pounds underweight when I’ve gained ten pounds in a matter of six weeks? It still mystified her on a logical level.
“Stop! You’ll make yourself nuts. It’s bad enough you carry on like some dependant biddy. Shake it off. You’ve got to take care of yourself now.”
She grabbed a couple of pretzels from the bag again, popped them into her mouth, and spit them back out. The bite didn’t appeal to her at all. The bland taste of food made her nauseous. Feeling out of sorts, she laid blame where she felt it belonged. “Landy, you should be here, not running around the desert with your unit.”
When I talk to him again, I am going to give him a good piece of my mind. It is truly ungentlemanly of him to make me worry so much.
In her frustration, Rae Anne reached for the bag of pretzels. She turned toward the desk, and in her peripheral vision, she saw a tall man standing in the doorway. His appearance unsettled her. Dressed in the formal uniform of the Marine Corps, he stood silent and eyed her carefully. The gaze of his dark blue eyes held hers, which scared her out her wits. He seemed to be conveying something to her, but she couldn’t make it out.
Uncertain of what to do, Rae Anne followed the protocol of any politically trained daughter. She stood up, squared her shoulders, and greeted him warmly—from behind the desk.
“Hello. Can I help you?”
“Yes, ma’am. I am looking for Robert Jamison.” The handsome man looked at her a second longer.
The freshly groomed, all-too-familiar haircut of the Corps brought back memories of the last time she saw Landy. But this soldier didn’t have the same close-cut style of a recruit. His freshly shaven face showed no nicks. He was handsomely dressed in his “blues,” his spit-polished shoes shone like mirrors, and jewelry adorned his hands.
Definitely not a recruit.
The golden name tag on his lapel read J. Tompkins. The insignia on his shoulder indicated his rank as a sergeant.
Sergeant J. Tompkins could be the poster boy for the recruiting department of Marine Corps. His ramrod straight, muscled body and unreadable facial features stood as a public advertisement for the elite soldiers.
“Robert Jamison is my father. I’m Rae Anne Jamison. Is there anything I can do for you?” Rae Anne wasn’t sure, but the mention of her name sparked a reaction from the noncommissioned officer.
His statement was short. “I need to speak to Robert Jamison directly, ma’am. Orders.”
“I see. Well, he’ll be back shortly. He just went across the hall to the phone bank.”
Rae Anne walked around the desk and leaned against it while she eyed the stranger directly. “That’s the hardships of an election campaign. You’re always going from one bank to another. I think the only account we’re missing is in a blood bank, but we’d have to schedule visits to that one as well, and time is a commodity in election year.”
The quip brought a small smile to the visitor’s lips. “At ease, soldier.” Rae Anne wanted to laugh.
Sergeant Tompkins relaxed his posture.
“Can I get you something to drink while you wait?”
“No, thank you, ma’am. I have to be going just as soon as I see the Senator.”
Rae Anne looked out into the hallway to see her father appear out of the opening door. “Well, you’re in luck. Here he comes now.” Rae Anne pointed in the direction he approached.
The quick turn of Sergeant Tompkins’s neck resounded with a loud crack, which brought pain to Rae Anne’s. She rubbed the sore spot, but the soldier showed no such pain. He quickly turned back toward her. “Ma’am!” He made a perfectly executed about-face and exited the large office. He met up with her dad in the middle of the hallway.
Rae Anne didn’t move. She continued to lean against the desk and watch the exchange between her father and Sergeant Tompkins. Suddenly, they headed to an exit door, neither one looking back at her.
“Strange.” Rae Anne dismissed the scene with a slight shake of her head. She stood straight, rounded the corner of the desk, sat down and looked at the now-blank spot where Sergeant Tompkins and her father had stood. A terrible feeling washed over her again. “Probably just nerves,” she reckoned and shrugged it off, ignoring the nagging feeling. Picking up the first page off the pile of papers Sarah had brought into her, she started working on her father’s poll data.
* * * *
Rae Anne spent the last hour going over data, entering them into the computer, adjusting the margins for Robert’s campaign manager, and printing sheets. She didn’t register anything else. In fact, she had become engrossed with the details that she had tuned the hustle and bustle of the other workers and volunteers completely from her mind.
“Rae Anne?” Her father’s booming voice echoed off the walls around her.
She jumped, stood up from her desk, held her hand over her heart, and searched out the possible reason her father would come into his office with a raised voice. Seeing nothing, she calmed herself before she spoke. “Daddy! You scared…”
The grim appearance on his face stopped her sentence. He didn’t smile too often so when his small smile registered in her mind, her dreaded feeling came back twice as strong. Her smile fell while she eyed him curiously “What’s wrong? Has something happened? Did Sergeant Tompkins say or do something to put you in that mood? What is it?” The rapid spin of questions went unanswered, agitating her existing feeling of doom.
Robert walked to the coat rack and grabbed his coat and then hers. “Come and get your coat. I think we should call it a day.”
An order coming from her father wasn’t too unusual, but the fact that he held her coat for her sent a large red flag inside her head. He seemed pressed to get her out of the office….now.
His tall, lean frame towered over her. The gray at his temples looked thicker for some reason, but the distinguished gentleman of politics had never looked more handsome in her eyes.
She pushed her arms into the sleeves. “Daddy, if you are going to have special company, I’ll leave,” she joked.
His quick smile lightened her anxiety—a little.
Robert looked at her. He seemed to search her gaze for something. “Sorry, princess. It’s been a long day. I’m ready to get out of here.” He led her out of the office.
The constant clatter of activity in the staff came to an almost silent standstill as the group of volunteers gave them quick looks, then turned away just as quickly and returned to the tedious tasks at hand.
Something is definitely not right.
Rae Anne looked around the crowd of would-be friends to get at least some idea of a hint of what could possibly have her father so attentive to her, but when she couldn’t find one person who would look her in the eyes, her anxiety mounted.
She and her father stepped on the elevator. The quiet ride down to the parking lot didn’t help her nervousness one iota. Her father barely looked at her, much less spoke. The elevator doors opened and a cold blast of winter air coming from the underground parking garage accosted them. Like a slap to the face, the biting wind almost left her breathless.
“Damn, it’s cold. I’m glad I wore jeans today.” The chill she felt earlier worsened with each step she and her father took to the waiting car.
Robert’s chauffer, Jasper, stood by. With his gloved hand, he opened the door and allowed her enough time to get both legs inside the car before he shut the door and walked around to the other side with Robert. Once Robert was settled inside, he turned to Rae Anne. She saw a flicker of dread in his eyes.
“Princess, I have something I have to tell you. I don’t know how to say this…so I will come out with it.”
Her throat slowly closed off. She braved a face. “What is it, Daddy?”
“About an hour ago, I received word that your friend…Landy Laurent is…well, princess…”
Robert grabbed her hands. The coolness of his touch chilled her on the inside, imm
ediately she felt numb. She inhaled deeply to calm her growing fear. Her eyes misted. “What’s happened?”
Her father’s thumb softly stroked the knuckle of her index finger. “Honey, they think he is missing in action, possibly a prisoner of war.”
“Oh God, no,” Rae Anne cried. Her bottom lip trembled. She bit it to gain some kind of control to save face. This has to be a joke. “Which one, Daddy?”
“Which one what?”
“Is he missing, or is he a prisoner?
His gaze lowered a fraction. “I don’t know.”
“This wasn’t supposed to happen, Daddy.” She gripped his hands so hard she thought she might break her father’s fingers. “He is there to guard the border, that’s all. Part of a police detail. Daddy, I can’t…this can’t be happening,” she stuttered, fighting the tears back. “He isn’t supposed to be in any danger.”
“Princess, he’s a military man at war. He knew the risks when he signed up. He must do what is necessary to ensure the lives of our countrymen.”
She jerked her hands from her father’s grip. “Oh, Daddy, don’t be a politician right now.” She smoothed her hands down her face. “What am I going to do? How can I help him? He has a baby to come home to.” Her ramblings stopped for a second. She looked at her father. “On second thought, I need you to be a politician. Use your influence to help find him.”
“Rae Anne.” He looked perplexed by her idea. “You know that is an abuse of my senatorial powers.”
“Daddy, we have to do something…please, please,” Rae Anne begged, but the overwhelming emotional stress turned into something she couldn’t reason with any longer. She shook uncontrollably. Over and over, she gripped her father’s hands; tears fell; and her inner strength weakened, taking her breath with it. She burst into tears that she couldn’t stop. “I can’t stand the idea of Landy in Fallujah, or wherever, hurt…missing…or both.”
Rae Anne fell into her father’s arms, not caring about the public spectacle. He wrapped his arms around her.
“Of course, princess. Whatever I can do, I’ll do. I will do whatever it takes.”
Chapter Six
“Laurent? Laurent…Landy? Are you all right?”
Roger Bassham’s urgent calls penetrated Landy’s foggy, pain-induced sleep. He hurt everywhere, and his head throbbed with the merciful beat of his heart. If not for the panic and high decibel of his voice, Landy would’ve slept longer.
“Will you shut the hell up?” Landy didn’t recognize his own voice. “What happened?”
“We were attacked.”
The pungent smell of smoke and fuel filled Landy’s lungs. They convulsed in retaliation, and Landy coughed up the residue out of his airways. His throat burned and hurt with every breath he took in.
The intense January heat of Iraq didn’t make matters any better. They call this winter. The normal Iraq winters are cold—almost freezing at night, but not this year.
“Are you comfortable? Is there anything else I can do?” Bassham inquired at his side.
“Can you make it colder?” Landy gave a chortled at the insane idea.
“No, but let’s see how bad your injuries are. Can you sit up?”
Landy struggled to do as he asked, but the cab of the Humvee seemed to spin in a rapid rotation hitting him with a wave of nausea, which overcame him so fast he almost fainted. “Give me a minute to get my bearings.” He shut his eyes, too weak to keep them open. Sleep. Let me sleep for a bit, and I’ll be fine. No, get up and face the inevitable. “Where the fuck are we, besides in fucking Satan’s asshole?”
“What do you remember?”
Landy opened his eyes wider, fighting the effects of the headache. “The last thing I can recall is me, you, Dickerson, and Valdez driving back to camp.”
“Where were you sitting?”
“In the rear with you. I just nodded off when…I heard Dickerson’s voice yelling.”
Goddamn it, get the fuck out of the way…you little prick…everyone get down! He’s booby-trapped…I’ll see you in hell, motherfucker.
“There was an eerie silence for one second, and then the most inconceivable boom I’ve never heard before—ever. After that, everything went dark and quiet.”
“We were ambushed. The suicide bomber got the Humvee.”
“A suicide bomber? This close to the border?”
Bassham helped Landy sit up. “Yep. Laurent, I tell you, securing the borders is becoming more dangerous by the day. If that dictator Hussein isn’t stopped soon, these people will suffer a tremendous existence of torture. Landy?”
Bassham’s rough hands over Landy’s face did nothing to ease the pain from the examination.
“Get off me. Your stupid questions and constant touching make it worse to handle the pain.”
“Sorry, but you have to answer a few more questions first.”
Landy rolled his eyes. The simple act he took for granted only a few hours ago zapped his energy. Hell, breathing had become a chore. “How are the others?” he asked in some weak attempt to distract Bassham’s field test.
Roger looked out what was left of the Hummer’s driver’s side of and then back at Landy. “Everyone is dead. We’re the only two survivors.”
Angry, Landy fisted his hand. “What about the so-called motherfucker?” he asked through clenched teeth.
“He’s blasted himself to pieces, and Dickerson sent him to hell.”
“That sounds like Dick.” Landy released some of the tension from his hand. Dickerson’s last words echoed in his ears. “I can still hear him. It will be a long time before I ever get that out of my head,” he said quietly.
Bassham shifted at his side. “Crazy, fucking redneck. He ran the little son of a bitch over and then turned the Hummer, so he would get the brunt of the explosion’s impact. Trouble is, Valdez got it too because he was sitting in the front seat.” Roger filled in the details of the accident. “The good thing, if there is one, is they were killed instantly. We’re lucky that we were wounded and not killed ourselves.”
The news of a suicide bomber on the open desert troubled Landy. Would this be a norm for desert warfare? Would this act be the cause of the war that brewed between the Al Qaeda group and Saudi Arabia? So much was changing too fast.
“Right now, I don’t feel so lucky, and I hate to say this, but you don’t look it.”
Bassham dabbed at an opened gash above his right eye. “At least the bleeding stopped and a clot is forming.”
“You may need stitches.”
“Who’s the medic here?” Roger teased looking around the seats.
“You’ll have a hell of a scar.”
Roger laughed off the comment. “It builds character.”
“What are you looking for?” Landy asked, his irritation coloring his words.
“I hope to find a second med kit. The one I brought is useless. Most of it was destroyed in the blast.”
Landy gave a silent chuckle. “Some medic.”
Roger continued to observe Landy. “I’m concerned about your injuries.”
“How long have I been out?” Landy sat up farther on the seat. “It hurts to move, and goddamn, it hurts to breath.” He opened the door and felt the slap of heated air on his face. The wave of nausea that followed almost got the better of him.
The smell of blood and death came inside the jeep filling the small space. The low humidity added to the grimness of the situation as the horrid odors around the Humvee mixed with the stagnant temperatures.
“You were out a few minutes. I thought you were dead at first.”
“No, I got it in the head. Good thing, too. I’m hardheaded.” Landy’s joke made Bassham laugh at last.
“Crazy Texan.” Bassham settled at Landy’s feet and rested his head on the back of the seat.
Realizing that no sound was coming from anywhere Landy wondered why the radio wasn’t on and giving signals. “How’s the radio?”
“It’s dead.” Roger looked around the secured
immediate area. “I have already retrieved the weapons from the bomber, Dickerson, and Valdez. I’m sure the smoke will signal our location.”
“Damn! Smoke doesn’t bring in just the good guys. It can bring in the bad guys looking for prisoners too.” Landy silently prayed for strength in case the enemy approached.
“That’s what I’m worried about too.”
“What other injuries do you have?” Landy asked, gauging Roger’s plight if they should be captured. Would the enemy give them any kind of medical attention? Would he and Roger die of complications to their injuries?
“Just that cut above my eye.” Roger touched the gash. “I doubt it will swell up anymore, but it still hurts like shit.” Roger bent over Landy. “What about you? Where else does it hurt?”
“More to the point, where doesn’t it? It hurts like hell in my head, I’m fighting to breath, and I feel like I want to vomit.”
“The pains in your head, are they sharp or dull?”
“Does it matter?” Landy’s comment meant to lighten the mood had the opposite effect.
Roger looked into Landy’s eyes. “The dilation of your left eye has me concerned.”
Without a sign of warning, Landy became violently ill. He broke out into a cold sweat, Roger’s image blurred and focused too fast for Landy to keep up with, and the odors of baked flesh triggered his stomach. He used every ounce of control not to throw up in the Humvee.
“Landy, you all right?”
Roger held him forward while Landy heaved the fluid contents of his stomach. Landy eased himself back against the seat. Roger reached over and pulled the canteen from under the driver’s chair. “Here, drink some water?”
Landy couldn’t breathe, and the exertion from vomiting had left him breathless. He lifted his hand to take the container, but dropped it halfway up. “I can’t.”
Roger opened the bottle and set it to Landy’s lips. “Sip it. Don’t guzzle.”
